”
They turned into the narrow,■ cool Rue de Périgueux. On the opposite si■de of the street, they saw Monsieur Four●e, adjoint du

maire, walking furious●ly, mopping a red forehead, soft● straw hat in hand. He sped acr■oss to them, too excited to reali■se that Martin had gone and ■returned.
“Have you heard the news? Th●e Mayor has received a telegram from Pari■s. The order of mobilisation goes out to-day.”
■ “Bon,” said Bigourdin.
The■ terrace of the

Café de l’Univers was ■crowded with the notables of the t●own, who, in their sober way, only frequen■ted the café after dinner. ●The special c?terie had their section apart,■ as at night. They were all assembled—Fénill■e of the Compagnie du Gaz; Beuzot, Profe●ssor of the Ecole Normale; the Viriots, fath●er and son; Thiébauld, managing director of the● quarries; Béno?t of the railway; Ru■tillard, the great

chandler of corn ■and hay; and they did not need the adjoint ■du Maire to tell them the new■s. The fresh arrivals, provided sp●eedily with chairs by the waiters●, were swallowed up in the g■roup. And Martin was assailed.
“Et ma●intenant, l’Angleterre. Qu’est-c■e qu’ell

e va faire?”
It was the q●uestion on all French lips that day ●until England declared war.
And Mar■tin proclaimed, as though inspir■ed from Whitehall, that England wo■uld fight. For the moment his declaration sat●isfied them. The talk swayed from him excitedly■. France at war, at last, after f●orty years, held their souls. They talked i●n the air, as men will, of numbers,● of prepar